In It for the Hands
by rockstarpeach
Summary: Dean likes Sam's hands. Like... REALLY likes Sam's hands. Sam knows it, and sometimes, he can be kind of a tease. Porn.


Title: In It for the Hands

Pairing: Dean/Sam

Rating: Adult

Disclaimer: Not mine, I make no money

Summary: Dean likes Sam's hands. Like… _really_ likes Sam's hands. Sam knows it, and sometimes he can be a bit of a tease. Porn.

***

The thing about Sam – okay, so there are _a lot _of things about Sam – but the one that gets to Dean the most, sexually speaking, the one that gets him off the hardest, is his fucking _hands_.

It's kind of stupid really, that they would be the parts of Sam that Dean focuses on the most, considering all the other parts of Sam that aren't too freakin' shabby, but hey, it's not like he has any control over what gets him going. And it isn't a fetish, exactly, because Dean's not a fetish kind of guy. Despite his numerous conquests, or maybe because of them, he's never really gone beyond the basics in terms of sex. No time for kink, or fetish, or anything dirty. It's not like you could really try that stuff on someone you barely know, right? So no, the way he feels about Sam's hands isn't kinky, at all. He just… really likes them.

They're always so much cleaner than Dean's, not smelling like gasoline, or covered in motor oil stains. Sam is always washing off any dirt or blood that work sends their way as quickly and methodically as he can, leaving the expanse of tanned skin fresh, and smelling vaguely of artificial flowers, and chlorine, and underneath it, _Sam_.

The God damned girl even carries a fancy nail scrubber in his bag, because he says it's better than anything the hotels they land in provide for them, and Dean's kind of glad he does, since it makes Sam's hands look like _that_, but he's not gonna say. That would just be going to a whole new level of gay. Way gayer than fucking guys.

They're softer than Dean's, too, Sam's hands. No calluses, no scars, because the princess is usually packing Polysporin and every single little cut and scrape gets treated right away, to keep his skin looking perfect. They're flawless, and smooth compared to the imperfect, rough texture of Dean's skin, because Sam moisturises. Every single fucking day, and not with that cheap motel provided crap either. No, he actually spends good money on the high quality stuff from the department store.

And Dean appreciates it. Hell the fuck yes, he does, because Sam's hands are _amazing_. That doesn't mean he doesn't get to make fun of him for it. And yeah, maybe sometimes he's a little jealous. Oh, Dean knows he's the pretty one, and that does a lot for his ego, but his hands next to Sam's, and Dean is downright embarrassed.

Dean's skin is rough, and he's got tears along his knuckles, constantly. He has a couple of crooked fingers from repeated breaks, and there's raising of light pink, shimmery scar tissue linging his fingers and the back of his hand, the underside of his palm. Just little nicks, not something anyone would notice, unless they were looking for it, but they're all there, and Dean is acutely aware.

Sam's fingers are longer, more slender than Dean's, much like the rest of his body. They're perfectly straight, and the knuckles are just the right size, and when they move to pick something up, or move something over, it's like they _own_ whatever it is they touch.

His nails are always somehow perfectly clipped and filed. Hell, they even look like Sam fucking _buffs_ them half the time, and he could probably win some sort of hand modeling contest if there was any such thing. Dean isn't exactly sure. But he makes a note to look into it, because fuck, his brother could make them a _fortune_ off those hands, if he tried.

And despite all that pansy-ass bullshit, Dean fucking _loves_ Sam's hands. Because they're big. Like… _big_. Those fingers of his aren't just long, they're sturdy, strong, and his wrists are thick enough, and the way the veins move under the skin, pulsing and protruding when Sam absently drums them against a table top, goes straight to Dean's cock, and… yeah.

And maybe… maybe this _is_ a fetish, and Dean _is_ a kinky bastard underneath all his vanilla. Maybe Sam's the only one who's been around long enough for him to actually indulge in that kind of stuff with. Whatever. He's not too concerned, as long as he has Sam's hands on demand.

And he does. Sam will do whatever Dean wants him to do, with those perfect fucking hands of his, or any other part of his body, and Dean knows it. Sam is a pretty damn big fan of Dean's recent obsession. He teases him with it, flaunts his hands at Dean, touches him too much, and wraps them around beer bottles and soda cans like he's fucking jerking them off, until Dean can't take it anymore. But he always makes it worth it, in the end.

Right now though, Sam's keeping his hands to himself. And not in the fun way, the way that Dean dreams about, humps the mattress to, and finishes himself off to in the early mornings.

No, he's at the table by the window, laptop open, papers scattered around, and his right hand is splayed out, next to the computer on the table, fingers spread wide, and Dean can see the tension in his arm as he tries to hold still.

Sam's left hand, the seductive little bastard, has drifted down to Sam's thigh, tip of his thumb brushing against the bulge in his pants like it was nothing. There's a slight twitch of his cock at the touch though, and Sam's shoulders tense just a bit, then overly relax, and Dean pushes his own hand further into his already open pants.

This isn't a first.

Dean's huddled on his bed, giving in to temptation while Sam sits across the room and fucking _teases_ him. His legs are slightly bent, and spread, and the sheet is pulled up around his hips, and he's not really sure why. Sam knows exactly what he's doing, so it's not like he needs to bother hiding it, but if he pretends it's some kind of dirty little secret, he thinks that just makes it a little bit hotter.

It's usually only a matter of time, Sam shamelessly showing off his hands, touching things much more pornographically than anyone would every actually touch anything, before he decides that Dean has suffered enough, and lets Dean fuck him, find his release deep inside his brother, while Sam uses his own come to paint pretty pictures on Dean's stomach and chest.

And while that shit is a fucking party and a half, Dean doesn't want that this time. He wants to watch, and wants to take care of things himself. And Sam must know that, because he pushes back into his chair, getting more comfortable, and smirks slightly at Dean's sharp intake of breath when beautiful, nimble fingers pop open the top button on his jeans.

It honestly doesn't matter, Dean thinks, as he watches Sam hit 'enter' again with his free hand, his fingers playing over the keyboard much too slowly, drawing it out, because he knows Dean loves it, and… where was he? Right. It doesn't matter what it is that Sam's doing with those hands.

Doesn't matter at all. Dean bites back a moan and grips himself tighter, pulls faster, because fuck, he's getting closer, and he wants to come, but he doesn't want to at the same time, because then it's going to be over. Fuck, just watching Sam do research on his laptop is totally getting him off, and he doesn't even care. Loves it, even. Because he's practically _molesting_ his fucking computer, and Dean kind of wishes he was a Dell for just a second, because he knows how good it feels to have Sam's hands on him like that.

And they can be doing anything, those hands. Flying over a keyboard, or turning newspaper pages, or giving fucking traffic signals on the corner. Absolutely anything. And Dean would fucking roll over and beg. Good puppy.

Because Dean knows what else those hands can do. And he thinks about it as he strokes faster even, and sighs a little too loud, and Sam smirks, and lets his fingers slide down the side of his monitor for no good reason other than that it drives Dean crazy. The asshole.

Sam's hand settles on the table, after an obscenely long tease with his laptop, but even then, it doesn't stay still. His fingers move, and his knuckles bend, and the tips of his fingers glide over the table top while the hand in his lap starts to gently stroke over his covered cock, and all Dean can think about is all those other things Sam's hands can do.

Things like moving through Dean's hair, or sliding down his torso, fingers dipping into the grooves and ripples of muscle and padding. Okay, so maybe a bit more padding these days than he's used to, but Sam sure as fuck isn't complaining, and Dean's not either, as long as he's got Sam's hands on him.

And when Sam's hands were on him, they didn't usually stop at fleeting touches. No, Sam knew how to work those hands, knew how to wrap those perfect fingers around Dean's cock and pull, like Dean was doing now, only a hundred times better. Knew how to work them into Dean's ass, crook them in just the right way, gentle and slow, because Dean was still a virgin back there, and he got kind of twitchy whenever ass play was involved. But Sam's hands always knew exactly how to handle him, how to make it fucking _awesome_.

How to make Dean fucking melt under Sam, turn him to putty, and fucking _beg_. Beg for Sam to sit on his cock, or flip them over so that Dean was in control (though that happens much less often, and Dean is totally not thinking about how that makes him the girl. At all.).

Dean lets the tiniest of groans escape him, and he hears Sam's amused chuckle while he watches his hand slide over, palm firmly and completely placed over his cock, and pressing, hard. His long fingers are stretched out between his legs, and the heel of his palm presses even harder against his erection, through his pants, and he waits until Dean lets out another completely embarrassing squeak before Sam makes a show of opening his zipper, and takes himself out.

He's going to kill Sam. After. Smug bitch.

He watches Sam's hand move over his cock, and oh, fucking fuck, it's a pretty damn awesome cock. Better than most he's seen, not that Dean has seen a lot, and Dean is fucking drooling, actually drooling, like, there's saliva running down his chin, just because it's so fucking hot.

Sam's hand isn't slow. No, he's turned on as well by all this, and he's obviously done teasing, at least himself. And it doesn't matter how fast Sam's pulling himself, it's still hotter than fucking hell. Because for Dean, the only thing better than Sam's hand, is Sam's hand moving over Sam's cock. Slow and drawn out is good, gives Dean a chance to really study the action, works them both into a near frenzy, but fast is good too, because that means he's that much closer to seeing Sam's hand covered in Sam's spunk, and _that_ is the prettiest fucking thing he will ever see in his life.

And by the looks of things, it's going to be quick. Because Sam is jerking himself off hard, and fast, the way he likes it, pushing himself closer to the edge and a finger on his other hand slides across the touch pad on his computer, and then clicks the mouse. Dean groans, and Sam slides his thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing the pearly fluid around the head, and Dean's seen it enough times, but it never gets old.

Neither do the images in Dean's mind, the memories. Flashes of Sam's palm grabbing his balls, fingers inside him, hand over his cock and up his chest, one finger sliding inside his mouth, past his lips. A second one, a few seconds later, and they bend at the knuckles, make a hook and curl into the inside of Dean's jaw, almost painfully.

Dean loves it, and he loves it even more when San draws him forward, manhandles him with just two fingers. Two of those perfect fucking fingers, into any position that Sam wants him, and yeah, Sam might be the one taking it up the ass in this relationship, but Dean is well and truly Sam's bitch.

And Dean is feeling just insecure enough this night to be glad that Sam isn't looking at him as he lets his mind play, that he's still staring at his computer screen, still doing fucking _research_, for fuck's sake. Dean is equally insulted and impressed that Sam's able to actually concentrate at a time like this, and then Sam's whole body trembles, and he sucks in a sharp breath of pleasure and lets it out slowly, and Dean fucking lets go.

He jerks himself even faster, and watches Sam come, watches the thick ropey strands of white shoot of out his cock. Some of it lands on his shirt, some on his pants, and Sam doesn't seem to care, just hits 'page down' and keeps reading. Some of the mess landed on his hand though, and when his dick has finished pulsing, when it's starting to soften and shrink, he gives it one last squeeze and releases it.

Oh, and here comes the good part, Dean just has time to think, before Sam's come-covered hand is lifted to his face, and he sucks his fingers into his mouth, one at a time, and licks them clean. His lips are pursed, puckered as he sucks, and his tongue darts out to lap up the come between his fingers, and on his palm, and Dean can't hold back anymore.

"Fuck!" he curses, a half whisper, and his eyes slam shut, and he throws his head back, and comes, long and hard, and his breathing is so erratic that he thinks he might hyperventilate. "Fuck," he says again, louder and calmer, his voice slightly more steady.

He's spent, and happy, and Sam's eyes shoot his way for almost a second, and they look amused, before they're back on his computer. Dean grunts, and grunts again when he gets out of the bed, his loose muscles protesting the movement as his legs nearly give out on him, but he manages to make it.

All the way to the bathroom even, before he gives in, and asks first.

"Dude," he says, turning to look at Sam, and the way he's rolling his eyes is clear in his tone. "You comin' or what?" And no, it's not romantic, or soft or anything like that, but it never is, with them. It's need, and it's convenience, and yeah, it's love, but shut the fuck up. It's not like they actually say shit like that to each other.

Sam tried once, and Dean hit him.

Sam smirks, and cocks his head toward the bathroom, even though he makes no move to stand. "Give me a few minutes, Romeo," he teases, cracking a smile, but still looking at nothing but his computer screen. "Busy trying to track down our Casper." But he's not anymore. Dean knows there's no way in hell Sam is doing any more work tonight, but he wants to make Dean wait. Teasing little whore. "I'll be in when I'm ready."

Dean snorts, and shakes his head, but turns around to go into the tub and get the shower started. Sam won't make him wait long, despite his words. After all, it isn't Dean that needs the lazy, post-coital make-out sessions in the shower, or the absent snuggling before they fall asleep. Dean just wants the sex. All that other shit, they only do because Sam's such a freakin' girl.

Dean turns on the spray of water to just this side of scalding, and nods to himself as he gets in. He ducks his head to hide a smile, and blames the hot water for the flushing of his skin, when less than a minute later the shower curtain is pulled back, and Sam's strong arms wrap around him from behind, those _hands_ of his splayed out wide and large over Dean's front, and a sweet, long kiss is dropped onto his shoulder.

And okay, yeah, maybe moments like these aren't all _that_ bad, but honestly, Dean's mostly in it for the hands.

END


End file.
